


A Study in Contrasts

by Birdpeople (DeusExMachina)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Meta, Nothing relationship-y just a lot of a yelling and calling-out on bullshit, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 10:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2147763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeusExMachina/pseuds/Birdpeople
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With that, every gently vibrating thread of thought in your pan snaps with a nearly audible ping. You stare at him disbelievingly. “You mean having a red mass of a bloodpusher like a neon sign saying ‘please prod this squishy thing with a sharp, pointy stick’ is something you look for in a troll?” You say, voice rising almost out-of-control on the end of the question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Contrasts

He paces as he lectures you. Maybe it’s a perk of being dead, never feeling the need to sit down. Or to rehydrate. Really, the two of you have been here for hours. You tried simply standing up and walking away from him, but he followed, still talking, thinking, perhaps, that you wished to carry out the ‘conversation’ while taking a leisurely stroll.

 

Makes you wonder if he was always this obtuse, or if that’s an unfortunate circumstance of having zero people to relate to _ever_ in his whole life. If that’s the case, _you_ technically would have turned out the same, though, so scratch that.

 

You’re sitting before him, gazing vacantly into the distance as he waltzes his magnificent, red-clad glory back and forth, passion blazing out of every useless word. He’s practically mincing for fuck’s sake.

 

You must have gone numb. The hatred is still there, and so is the horror, but buried, dormant. What you are unable to shake is the headache building behind your eyes. So you stick out a leg and trip him as he wheels around, sending him crashing to the ground mid-sentence.

 

Before he gets his breath back, you fix him with your most leaderly stare. “You’re triggering me, you piece of shit.”

 

At once he’s falling all over himself apologizing, telling you to tell him what’s wrong, but you’ve had enough. You’re tempted to punch him now he’s down, but instead decide to ram your head against his. Big mistake. Your temples throb and your vision creases with agony, but the conspicuous silence is music to your aural canals.

 

“Your pious voice is triggering me you insensitive dumbfuck,” You say scathingly. “Now, I’m going to leave you here, and you are _not_ going to follow me.”

 

He seems to have the audacity to be offended. “Karkat I really don’t see-”

 

“Triggered! Insensitive to the blind.”

 

“I mean I can’t seem to grasp-”

 

“Triggered, insensitive to those without fine-motor-skills.”

 

“This is insane! If you would just let me-”

 

“Now you’re getting smart about my moirail? Insanity is no laughing matter. Unless you’re a clown. Are you a clown? Gamzee’s a clown you offensive prick.” You have to admit, you’re starting to enjoy yourself. He’s getting more and more flustered as he searches for words to convey what he means.

 

Carefully, he tries, “I’m sorry, Karkat, I don’t-”

 

“Triggering to sociopaths and those who don’t feel remorse or sorrow. Try again.” Next time you see Rose you’re going to hug her for teaching you ‘Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.’

 

Kankri actually buries his face in his hands. “I’m not sure how to approach-”

 

“Triggered.”

 

He looks up, obviously miffed, his aural shells displaying a rather fetching shade of red as his face heats up with embarrassment. “What for?” He asks, with not a little snap in his voice.

 

You give a long sigh. “You face,” you admit with an air of regret.

 

“What about my appearance displeases you, Karkat?”

 

“Well it’s pretty close to mine, just enough so I don’t feel unique and special, but it’s just not as sexy,” you say mournfully. How you wish Strider was here to see this.

 

But you seemed to have made a misstep. Kankri pounces on your words. “Is it our mutant blood you find displeasing? I am ashamed that you feel obligated to enforce a set of physical standards of beauty that have obviously been imposed on you from a young age, Karkat. It must have been a terrible environment to live in.”

 

You roll your eyes. “Yes, you’ve hit the issue on the head. I think I’m an ugly piece of shit because I don’t have fins or purple blood or straight teeth. You are so right, self-image is definitely my problem. Tell me Kankri, do you find me attractive?” You bat your lashes at him, teeth bared in a grim parody of a simper.

 

To your confusion he flushes even darker, avoiding your eyes entirely. “Of- of course I do.”

 

With that, every gently vibrating thread of thought in your pan snaps with a nearly audible ping. You stare at him disbelievingly. “You mean having a red mass of a bloodpusher like a neon sign saying ‘please prod this squishy thing with a sharp, pointy stick’ is something you look for in a troll?” You say, voice rising almost out-of-control on the end of the question.

 

“We are of the same blood, Karkat.” You can tell he wants to sound patient and wise, but he come across nervous and pinched.

 

“Excuse me, I didn’t realize incest was on the table, I guess all bets are off now.”

 

“I wasn’t suggesting sexual activity!” he gasps, scandalized.

 

“Sure you weren’t.”

 

He looks angry. And confused as to why he’s angry. It pulls his face into sharper focus, somehow. Like having real, genuine, first-hand emotions somehow transforms him into the troll he was supposed to be. He looks a hell of a lot like you, now, too, but the differences are still stark and clear. “Listen to me, Karkat,” he growls and fuck that was kinda hot. “I am not hitting on you. I’m trying to work with you.”

 

You laugh in his face. You can’t help it. “If you were, you’d fucking well let me get a word in edgewise, wouldn’t you? Listen to _me_ for once, because you’ve got a savior complex like I’ve never seen before and it doesn’t seem to even matter to you that you’re _dead_. The train has left the station and, wouldn’t you know it, you weren’t on board. None of the stuff about your old society matters, and neither does the stuff about mine. Yes, it still happened, and you’re free to ponder that, but there’s really nothing you can do about it anymore. I don’t know what’s waiting for us on the other side of this road trip from hell, but it would take monumental effort to fuck that up worse than I’ve already fucked everything else up.”

 

But none of that’s any of your business. You’ve got a nice little afterlife here with all of your friends. Don’t try to change them, that advice I’ll give you for free. Enjoy it. Do something constructive. Take up throat-singing, for all I care, but stop driving people away by being a _boring, solipsistic fuck._ Because _I_ tried to control my friends and now half of them are dead and I _seriously fucking regret it_. You have a second chance to get back into their good graces. _Stop fucking wasting it!_ ”

 

He stares at you, his mouth open, and you’re panting with rage. You take a deep, shuddering breath and stand up straight. You wonder if you’re about to cry. That would be the absolute cherry on the shit-cake. You really hadn’t meant to say all of that stuff about your session. This was supposed to be about getting him to leave you alone.

 

“They weren’t my friends,” Kankri says quietly. He sounds lost.

 

“What?” You snap.

 

He winces at you tone, but he continues, clenching and unclenching his hands uselessly at his sides. “We’re of the same blood, but I never took my life for granted the way you did. It made it harder. I made myself a target for scorn and dislike and never once regretted it, even when I was so lonely and bored I thought I was going nuts. You learned to adapt, and even if that meant hiding, at least you had your friends. The people here were never my friends, no matter what I pretended. You’re right. I drove them away. And I’m scared that it’s too late to make amends.” His voice wavered. “And I’m afraid to face what I’m really like. Without the good I thought I was doing, what am I?” He looked pleading. “Can you tell me that?”

 

With some apprehension, you hold out your hands to him. He grasps them gratefully. “You’re part of a legacy,” you say softly. “Generations of mutants and fuck-ups. And leaders who didn’t do shit until it was too late. You can draw on that if it makes you feel better, or you can just say ‘fuck it’ and swallow your pride and decide to be better than the rest of us.”

 

“But I’m not better-”

 

You snort. “I mean you can go apologize to your friends. Mend fences. Be _happy_ for fuck’s sake. Find out who you are without all that talk of nothing.” You steel yourself. Now comes the hard part. “I’ll be your first friend. The kind of friend who calls you out on your shit. Okay, cousin? I’ll help you win them over.”

 

He gives a hiccup-y laugh. “Awfully self-sacrificing of you.” He hesitates. “I’ll listen to you from now on. If you want to talk about- well, _anything_ \- I’ll listen. And I won’t even give you advice unless you want it.”

 

You give a bark of laughter and drop his hands, slinging an arm around his shoulders instead. “It’s a start. C’mon. This funereal soap bubble must have a gaming platform somewhere. Time to school your ass in Troll Mario Kart.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this was reeeally old, but I finally finished it, so I'm posting it. So there. I hope you liked it~
> 
> My tumblr is quasi-birdpeople.tumblr.com


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